


Oh Lazarus how did your debts get paid?

by valuablenicola



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: As the characters appear, Batfamily Feels, Buried Alive, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Jason Todd is Alive, Jason Todd's mission to protect Robins, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valuablenicola/pseuds/valuablenicola
Summary: When Jason Todd rose from the dead it was with the thought that Robin couldn't die.Along the way that message gets a little twisted up, he also meets a child assassin and decides to devote himself to the protection of one Damian Wayne.A story in which Jason Todd comes back to life, protects children, kills crime-lords, evades Bats, becomes the Red Hood,  and tries very hard not to kill Bruce (not necessarily in that order).





	1. Jason - Oh Lazarus were you so afraid?

**Author's Note:**

> Basically what might have happened had a catatonic, but protective, Jason Todd had been introduced to Damian. This sets in motion a chain of events that leads to him back to himself. 
> 
>  
> 
> Look I haven't read comics or written fanfic in ages, I just got hit by a surge of love for Jason Todd a few weeks ago and started mapping out this massive story. It will primarily focus on the bond between Jason and Damian, but later chapters will get into more of the Batfam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wakes up.

It was hot. 

 

It was swelteringly hot. That was the first thing Jason became aware of. Not the dry heat he’d complained about in Ethiopia, this was more humid, he could feel his hot breath blowing back against his face with every desperate gasp.

 

It was also pitch black. In fact, it took Jason feeling for his own face desperately to realize his eyes were in fact open. Had he gone blind?

 

His breath was coming more rapidly as he fought not to panic. What could he remember? Where the fuck was he?

 

Africa.

 

A crowbar.

 

Fire. 

 

Was something nearby burning or was Jason burning?

 

Purple gloves.

 

Cigarette smoke.

 

Jason’s every nerve on fire. 

 

The Joker.

 

Was he  _ dead _ ?

 

But none of that answered the more pressing issue. Was the Joker still nearby, he tried even harder to calm his breathing, he couldn’t let that mad man find him. Where was Sheila? Where was  _ Bruce _ ?

 

He felt around desperately and was shocked to find the collar of a suit jacket and the loop of a tie at his neck. Where was his costume? Why had someone changed his clothes? His feet kicking out only collided with something solid, something too close for comfort. He was inside a box. He was inside a very small box, too small. His hands running down the sides found only soft satin. His neck was being supported by something else that was too soft.  _ A coffin _ his mind supplied. He was in a coffin and from the way the air tasted stale he was buried in it. 

 

_ I’m going to die _ . 

 

That was the first truly coherent thought he’d had since waking. It was immediately followed by an older thought, one that had been a mantra in his mind when he was younger, one that he carried with him.  _ Like hell I am. _

 

He tore through the satin with ease, fingers coming up against hard smooth wood. The Joker hadn’t skimped on whatever this mad plot was. He took three deep breaths and counted backwards from ten. He was going to have to dig himself out. He positioned his hands above his face and braced himself as best he could. 

 

The first hit against the wood did nothing. The second send a cloud of fine dirt showering down on his face. The third made an ominous crack. The fourth and fifth came swiftly, he sucked in as much stale air as he could then with the sixth, the fine wood gave way and Jason was immediately smothered by a mountain of dirt.  _ Like hell,  _  he thought. 

 

He dug upwards desperately, pushing the earth with all the force in his shaking arms. He felt like he was drowning, felt the weight of the soil above him pressing down on his chest, felt his lungs gasping for air, felt his legs kick helplessly against the coffin. _Like. Hell._

 

He kept moving, clawing and kicking as he fought not to swallow the waves of dirt pressing into his mouth. Fought to keep moving. Saw Bruce’s face in his mind. Pushed against the mountain above him. Saw Dick. Saw Alfred. Tried to breathe and nearly suffocated. Saw himself in the mirror of the batcave, saw the yellow cape.  _ Robin _ . 

 

_ Robin couldn’t die _ .  _ That’s the magic.  _

 

Something wet was on his face. The breath he took burnt his lungs. But the next didn’t. Water in his mouth.  _ Drowning _ ?  Water pouring down his face but air coming into his lungs.  _ Rain _ . He had broken through the surface. The roar of the thunder in the distance applauded his success. 

 

He collapsed there in the mud, legs still covered in earth but his head turned to the heavens. Rain washing his face, his eyes slowly adjusted to what light there was. Rows and rows of shapes were coming into focus, bathed in distant light from a familiar city. Gravestones. So he was in an actual graveyard then. He grabbed the nearest one and hauled himself closer to it, huddling under the shelter of the marble angel above it. His fingers found grooves, absently tracing them.  _  Jason Peter Todd _ . 

 

Oh so he was dead then. 

 

.

.

.

 

He couldn’t remember how he came to leave the cemetery that night. He couldn’t remember how he stumbled out into the road. He couldn’t remember how a passing car slowed beside him. Couldn’t remember how a worried voice had called to him. Couldn’t remember collapsing in that man’s arms. Couldn’t remember the frantic  voice calling for an ambulance. Couldn’t remember flashing blue and red lights. Couldn’t remember the paramedics flashing a light in his responseless eyes. Couldn’t remember the questions they asked about his bleeding fingers. Couldn’t remember the glances they exchanged when he wouldn’t respond to any question. Couldn’t remember the worry in their voices as they gently sedated the teenager. Couldn’t remember that the only word he could say was  _ Bruce _ .

 

.

.

.

 

When he next opened his eyes there was glaring white light. It was a harsh change from the darkness of his coffin. There was a sharp alcohol smell in the air. He was wearing a scratchy gown. There was something digging into his left arm, but aside from that he was restrained. He pulled the needle out. No alarm sounded. Tentative feet touched cold floors. No-one came charging through the door. No-one stopped him as he made his way to a fire exit. No-one stopped him as he pushed his way out onto the street.  _ He had to get home _ .

 

.

.

.

 

Everything after that was fragments. The familiar looming buildings of Crime Alley. The feeling of damp cardboard underneath his head. Desperate fingers pulling at clothes that he had no idea how he’d obtained. Hands grabbing food out of his and the sound of feet taking off. Jeers thrown at him and blows too. Fists that aimed at his stomach and his face. Hits that he blocked. Arms that he twisted and dislocated. Men that he flipped over his shoulder. Threats. A pair of frightened eyes that looked up at him. Not a threat. A small head that tucked itself under his arm. 

 

Someone yelling at a young girl, Jason’s hands around their throat. The girl’s hand in his. 

 

Food he passed to smaller figures, his own stomach growling. 

 

Children around him. Children who’d seen too much. Children who knew too much. Children that didn’t trust. Children who led him to a dry warehouse. Children who relaxed at the sight of his broad shoulders. Children who never questioned why he never spoke. 

 

Being chased across a rooftop. Flipping backwards in his descent to the alley below. Disappearing into the night. 

 

Getting clipped by a bullet meant for someone else. Someone he had pushed out of the way.

 

A boy, no older than six, examining the grubby hospital band wrapped around his wrist and calling him “Bruce.” 

 

Breaking the wrist of the man who tried to steal from him. Giving a child his jacket.

 

A woman on a corner, propositioning him, never getting a response. The same woman’s face when Jason pushed the pimp who’d been threatening her off a roof. 

 

Standing on a Gotham rooftop. Waiting to see something.

 

Waiting for someone to come for him.

 

And someone did. But not, he thought, whoever it was he’d been waiting for.

 

.

.

.

 

The woman and the men she had with her took him somewhere different. Somewhere far away. Somewhere that didn’t feel familiar. Dark halls filled with men dressed in dark uniforms. Flickering torches. Unfamiliar words spoken by unfamiliar tongues. 

 

The woman who washed his face when he wouldn’t do it himself. The woman who called him “Jason.”

 

The woman who led him through an unfamiliar room filled with towering shelves of books. The woman who guided him into a room with a bed softer than any he could remember. The woman who left him sitting on that bed.

 

.

.

.

 

He had no concept of time. But time must be passing. The woman would lead him to a big room with a padded floor. There were men around him there, moving with incredible speed in practiced drills. Men who would hit him until he hit them back. But he never moved until they were about to strike him. 

 

He would stay wherever he was guided, swaying in place, for hours. Until the woman returned and brought him back to the soft room and repeat.

 

He never reached for anything. He accepted the food handed to him. He drank the water pressed into his hand. He did not strike them first. He held the staff they gave him disinterestedly in his hands. He evaded blows rather than retaliate. This did not seem to please these strangers. 

 

One day the woman stayed to watch one of these exercises. Another figure joined her, smaller, with dark black hair and so familiar that Jason took a step off the mark he’d be left on. He didn’t move further but the woman’s sharp eyes had caught his gaze, saw something that interested her there. She must have made a sign. Because suddenly the men were no longer focusing on their drills. Jason’s focus never slipped from the child. 

 

One of the men, stepped towards the pair as the woman retreated, letting her hand fall from the child’s shoulders. The dark-haired kid slipped into a practiced stance. Hands clenched by his sides, but his legs braced ready to fight. The woman passed the man a sword, almost as tall as the boy and nodded. The man began to take a telegraphed swing at the kid. He never connected. 

 

The boy found himself pushed backwards into an undignified sprawl as an unexpected staff blocked the sword. Jason made an inhuman noise as he slammed the staff into the man who stumbled at the unexpected show of strength. He looked desperately to the woman. But Jason was not so distracted. He spun the staff above his head with one hand before bringing it swiftly down against the man’s head. He collapsed where he was. Jason straightened and reached for the boy. 

 

The child ignored the hand offered to him and leapt to his feet, turning to glare at the woman. For the first time, there might have been a flash of happiness in her eyes. At a quick word from her the men picked up their companion and fled the room. The woman ran her hand along Jason’s face and he didn’t so much as blink. She searched his eyes for whatever spark had driven this spurt of activity, before turning on her heel and dragging the child out of the room with her.

.

.

.

 

More time passed. Now the child was brought in the padded room more often than not. The woman experimented with a variety of set-ups. 

 

If someone pointed a sword at him, Jason would not respond.

 

If a sword was pointed at the child would lead to Jason throwing himself on the attacker. 

 

If a gun was pointed at Jason, he would attempt to wrestle it from the arm holding it.

 

If a gun was pointed at the child, Jason would wrestle the gun from the assailant and fire a shot aiming for the man’s legs or shoulder. He never missed his target.

 

If Jason was being attacked, he would passively block with his arms as if bored by the action.

 

If the child was attacked, Jason would knock the attacker unconscious and on one memorable occasion broke a man’s jaw in his thoroughness. 

 

It was after this incident that the woman took Jason into the room with the books again. The child was there, pouring over a massive tome and studiously scribbling in another notebook. He looked up at them with those familiar eyes.

 

“Damian,” The woman said. “Meet your brother.”  The kid’s eyes flashed with new interest and he stood from his seat. He barely came up to the older boy’s hip. His mother watched them both, carefully studying Jason’s stiff posture. His lack of response to anything they said. “He will give his life for you.” She boasted.

 

.

.

.

 

More time passed. Jason would follow the child now when the woman wasn’t around. Stood behind him as the child read from the piles of books. Stood between him and any attacker. Followed three steps behind as the child was brought in front of his grandfather. Watched the child practice with a sword and staff. Allowed the child to use him as a practice dummy. Never raised a hand at any attack from Damian, even those that would provoke him from anyone else. But he never spoke. Never acknowledged a conversation. Not even for the child.

 

Time still moved in flashes. 

 

All that mattered was ensuring the dark haired child was not harmed. 

 

That semblance of a thought was all that burned in his mind. 

 

Flashes of a dark haired child bleeding, flashes of fire, flashes of dirt, flashes of drowning, all that mattered in this world was the child. 

 

.

.

.

 

The woman seemed both pleased and frustrated by Jason’s behaviour. She seemed to be waiting for something.

 

Jason had waited once. 

 

Time continued to move in images. 

 

Jason was bleeding from where the child had stabbed him. The child was not crying but his hands were shaking. Damian was watching him with horrified eyes. The woman could no longer wait. 

 

She took Jason away from the boy. The woman led him though those dark halls yet again. To a room with a deep pool that glowed with an eerie light. Some deep, long buried part of Jason’s mind told him to fight, to flee. 

 

More hands grabbed him and plunged him into the pit.

 

.

.

.

 

Fire.

 

Burning.

 

He was burning.

 

Jason’s eyes opened under that water and his first coherent thought was that he must be dying, must be drowning, green tinged light fading as he sank deeper.  

  
_ No _ , he thought.  _ The hell I am. _


	2. Damian - Now that we've pulled the thread (what's coming can't be undone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damian meets Jason Todd and a lot of what he finds gives him cause for concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote the prologue to this then wrote another 15,000 words that loosely fit into the future chapters. Then I rewrote the whole structure of the story. Now I think I'm finally ready to post chapter 2 and start the story moving. Thanks for everyone who left a kind comment, and sorry about the wait.

Damain al Ghul was eight years old when a stranger pushed him out of the way with a savage yell and intercepted a blow meant for him. He was eight years old when he met the vacant eyes of that older boy. He was eight years old when his mother presented him with Jason Todd. 

Todd wasn’t like anyone else Damian had met. He was totally silent. Not in the way his grandfather’s followers could slip unseen and unheard into any room, but in a hollow way, in an empty way. At first he had suspected this was some cleverly designed act, a ruse to infiltrate the league. After all, he had been raised to trust no-one’s intentions, Todd attempting to plot against them was a less painful thought than the question of what had made Jason like this. 

The teen would barely respond to any stimulus. He showed no sign of recognizing his own name, or any cruel barbs thrown at him. He never blinked at threats. He never answered any of Damian’s questions. His empty gaze rested on whatever was placed in front of him, in a large room he would track Damian’s movements but little else. He didn’t respond to questions but seemed to follow orders, at least those from Damian or Talia. He would follow or stay as requested. He was a talented fighter, and a vicious one at that, but he seemed more inclined to incapacite rather than kill, and nothing motivated him better than Damian himself.

At first Damian had found it insulting that the older boy had assumed he needed to be protected. Damian was far from helpless, he’d been training as long as he could remember and he was lethal. Todd, however, seemed convinced that Damian needed his shadow at all times. His mother was also apparently pleased with this development. He will give his life for you. 

The words haunted Damian. He didn’t want Todd to die for him persay, that seemed almost wasteful, to give your life for someone else. He didn’t want to need such a sacrifice. He didn’t need anyone. 

At first he took his frustrations out on Todd. The teen would not flinch if Damian struck him. He would not react in the slightest. Damian would have taken even more offense if Todd didn’t have the same non-response to his mother’s strongest fighters. But against them, eventually, he would fight in his neutral way, blocking only the most powerful blows, those that would do him more permanent injury. But no matter the blow, Todd would not raise his hands against Damian. 

It didn’t matter if Damian held a weapon either. Todd allowed himself to be struck by a staff, allowed Damian to graze his arm with an arrow, and allowed most horrifying of all Damian to stab him in the arm with a knife, eyes never leaving Damian’s face, expression always blank. It was as if his automatic reflexes could not recognize Damian as a credible threat. 

Something inside Damian rebelled at this. A person would fight back. Whatever Todd was, he seemed less than human.

But inhuman or not, Todd was also something else, he was Damian’s only link to his father, he was his brother. A word that had never had meaning before Todd. A word that now meant this shell of a being. But within that shell the only spark of life seemed to come from protecting Damian. Their connection, such as it was, was the only link Todd had to life. Whatever Todd was now, he was tied to Damian and Damian could not let his brother continue like this. He would drag him back to humanity himself. 

.  
.  
.

 

The easiest place to start was in their time alone. Ever since his mother had appointed him with Todd as a bodyguard the teen would silently trail behind Damian throughout his days, accompanying him from sparing to training with his tutors and to the library where Damian was meant to tackle whatever readings had been assigned. Usually, Todd would stand behind Damian, but that morning Damian made sure to drag a second chair around the table and place it beside his own. Todd watched but did not move. Damian sighed. “Take the seat already” he snapped. Todd still didn’t move. 

Damian growled under his breath and stalked over to his brother, seized him by the wrist and dragged him down into the chair. He had to stretch up onto the tips of his toes to pull Jason downwards and finally the man moved, crumpling into the chair as Damian smiled in satisfaction and settled himself into his own seat. He pulled the book across the table and placed it between them, flipping it open to the start of the section he’d been reading. 

Jason started blankly at him and not at the words. Damian huffed another breath, he pulled Todd’s hand up onto the book and traced the title. “Purgatorio.” He pronounced. Todd made no acknowledgement. Damian withdrew his hand, Jason’s remained on the page. As he watched, Todd dragged his hand down the page, finger coming to rest at the start of the first line. And then still looking at him, Jason tapped his finger just once next to the words. “To course across more kindly waters now,” Damian whispered the words, “my talent’s little vessel lifts her sails, leaving behind herself a sea so cruel; and what I sing will be that second kingdom, in which the human soul is cleansed of sin, becoming worthy of ascent to Heaven.” Jason’s finger had tracked the lines perfectly even though his blank face betrayed no change. Damian felt a thrill rush through him. 

It proved something. It proved that there was still something inside Todd, something that knew more than how to protect Damian. Something that just needed to be reached and Damian might just have found the way to do it. But in that moment, with a thousand thoughts bouncing around his head, all Damian did was continue to read, letting Dante’s words wash over them both.

.  
.  
.

His plan to teach his brother how to be human again was complicated by the near constant presence of his mother’s soldiers. Damian knew that Talia would never approve of this behaviour, this softness for Todd. So Damian made sure they were truly alone before attempting to engage with Jason. The library was the easiest place for these sessions. Jason seemed happy enough to listen to whatever Damian chose to read to him. 

At first he stuck to English, confident that would provoke the best reaction. However, he had to consider the chance that this could still be a reflex, was Todd capable of comprehending that the words he gestured at were connected to the ones Damian read? It was difficult to judge how much, if anything, Todd could understand. To test a theory, Damian pulled a copy of Dumas from the shelf and began reading Les Trois Mousquetaires, Jason pointed his finger at each line dutifully. The same result for Anna Karenina. Finally Damian brought out the illuminated copy of the Qur’an that his grandfather had gifted him. This was the first Jason wouldn't respond to. He simply watched Damian with those vacant eyes, making no effort to move his hand. 

To prove his theory, he brought back the Dumas, Jason seemed more than content to bring his finger back to the page and follow along as if relieved to be back to something familiar. At first Damian hadn't expected Jason to react to any of the books and he certainly hadn’t expected him to follow anything that wasn’t English. It was hard to imagine his brother speaking another language, it was hard to imagine him speaking at all. 

There were many questions his mother would not answer about Jason. She refused to tell Damian why she had chosen to bring Jason to Nanda Parbat. She refused to answer whether his father knew that two of his sons were waiting for him. She refused to explain what had led Jason to this state. She had told him that Jason was from Gotham and that he was his brother. Beyond that, Todd was a mystery.

A mystery who apparently understood at least French and Russian, but not Arabic. A mystery who knew how to fight, not with the refined skill of the soldiers Damian trained with but with something raw, yet effective. Jason was also covered in scars, some of which he’d gained in the months since arriving there. A twisted knot on his shoulder from one of Damian’s own knives, a silver line on his side from a sword once aimed at Damian. There were others, older ones that spoke of a violent life. The puckered edge from what was likely a bullet on his leg, a burn on his back, like he’d been too close to an explosion. The looping scar on his cheek, the one that looked eerily like a J. The ones that scared Damian though, were the numerous faint lines on his hands, like he’d dragged them over and over again through glass and the dark lines on his chest that resembled a Y-shape. If his brother wasn’t sitting in front of him he’d have said that one looked like an autopsy scar. 

Had one of those injuries been the one that broke Todd’s mind? Had it been all of them combined? 

There was no-one Damian could ask. Todd was his best source of information and for all his interest in the books, he still had yet to make any sort of sound.

Not that Damian hadn’t tried to get him to talk. He’d spent countless hours in the library testing his already thin patience with trying to coax a response from Jason. He handed his brother object after object naming each of them in turn. He tried pointing at himself, introducing himself, pointing at Jason, saying his name, ordered him to repeat Damian’s words. None of it worked. 

He knew Todd’s vocal chords worked. He’d heard the noises Todd made when fighting, the roar that bordered on inhuman. Had heard the screams Todd made in his sleep. Never a real word but at least he seemed capable of noise.

What worried Damian most about Todd was his passive fighting style. He seemed only interested in blocking life threatening blows to himself. He didn’t stop them from giving him minor injuries, allowed swords too close, didn’t stop a staff smashing into his legs. And yet Damian knew Todd could be vicious when it came to protecting him. Remember the glint in Todd’s eyes as he beat another tutor unconscious. The way he’d kept hitting long past what was necessary, fracturing a man’s jaw and still not stopping. When they’d pulled him off the man Todd had gone completely limp, returning to his neutral expression as if blood wasn’t dripping from his fingers.

Todd still would not raise a hand to Damian and that was a problem. Damian was pretty sure Todd would let Damian kill him without ever breaking that blank face. His tutors and his mother encouraged him to use Todd as if he were a training dummy rather than a person. They told him to where to strike and Damian would, Todd would not respond, not even after a dozen blows to the same point. Damian had seen countless bruises blossom on Jason’s skin that he had caused. He didn’t like the feeling those gave him. He liked even less, the wounds he’d inflicted when Damian was told to use Todd as target practice. He’d thrown the knives as best he could to outline Todd’s still form but the knicks on Todd’s arms and the side of his ear betrayed how his hands had shaken. They were Damian’s failings and they were etched into his brother forever. 

Sometimes Damian wondered what it would take for Todd to snap and whether he would deserve what happened then. He had hurt him, there was no doubt about it, Todd had the scars that proved it, even if Damian checked his bandages and progress himself, he had caused those wounds. 

He thought about what it meant that his mother seemed content to appoint Todd as his primary protector. The league had dozens of more capable fighters, people with unquestionably deep loyalties, ones who would kill for him in a heartbeat. Todd wasn’t that, he would give his life for Damian but he didn’t kill, that was weakness in the eyes of the league. Was his mother waiting for Damian to make the kills himself? It was possible, anything was with his mother. Damian suspected it had something to do with his father, that this was his mother’s way of giving him that connection. Was this her idea of kindness?

Damian also knew his grandfather did not agree with her. He knew that R’as did not see a usefulness in a man who would not kill. Damian worried what that might mean for Jason, what it might mean for them both. 

.  
.  
.

The day had been routine enough so far, Damian had begun with reading in the library, he and Jason had finished with the Three Musketeers, and were plunging headlong into Dumas’ sequels. Jason had followed behind him as calmly as ever to the training room. Damian’s instructor had told him to wait while Jason was approached by three men. His brother did not respond to the first blow even though it knocked him to his knees. The second staff he caught between both hands and yanked while twisting himself away from the third. Jason rose, holding the staff in front of him, dark hair falling over his eyes. Then he was moving again, countering each blow. The man who’d lost his staff pulled out a knife and tried to cut at Jason’s side. Damian failed to hide his smirk as Jason flipped elegantly backwards to dodge the blow. His instructor did not miss the momentary expression, he placed a dagger in Damian’s hands. “End it.”

Damian felt his blood turn to ice. He weighed the weapon in his hands, for a mad second debated the outcome of killing the instructor. Even if he succeeded, he was loathe to think what his mother would do to him. He looked at the three men again. End it, that was an open enough instruction to be a test. Was he meant to stop the fight? Incapacitate Jason or the three assailants? Was the it the instructor referred to Todd? Did they want to watch him kill his brother? 

The latter was definitely likely, was that the reason they had kept him these last months? Sentiment was weakness. That was what he had always been taught. That was what his mother said. Sure, she loved Damian but they were both aware she would do whatever was most useful to herself, even at the cost of Damian. His grandfather certainly believed sentiment was a useless pursuit, something that could be used against you, something he himself never indulged in. Damian wondered, not for the first time, what his father would think? He knew next to nothing of the man, knew the man was not aware of his existence. But his father had more than one son and Jason Todd was proof that his father’s sentiment only went so far. After all, what was Todd, who was still a teenager, doing soulless and empty fighting for his life against assassins? Why had his father let Todd leave in such a state? Why had he not searched for him?

And yet Todd himself was proof that there was a strength in sentiment. It was caring for Damian that drew out the fire inside Jason, it was that alone that seemed to bring a person out of the shell of his brother. And now Damian was faced with the question of what to do in the face of that? His grandfather would say to crush that soft part of his heart that wanted to protect Jason, his mother would say nothing directly but her cold eyes would be unimpressed if he didn’t take action himself. He will give his life for you. But Damian had never asked for that. He had never wanted that. 

He took two steps forward, flipped the knife in his hands. The instructor was watching him closely. Damian steeled himself, he slipped into the fray, his mother’s followers easing up their attacks as they saw him, Todd’s empty eyes finding his at once. Damian tackled his brother to the floor, pinning his chest with his whole body, and plunged his knife into the soft place where Jason’s left arm met his torso and buried the dagger to the hilt. Jason didn’t let out any noise. Damian’s hands shook as he let go of the hilt. He remained where he was, one knee on either side of Jason’s chest. He bowed his head, forehead almost meeting Todd’s, watching the blood seeping around the knife. 

His instructor tutted behind him. “The heart is lower. You need more practice for your aim.” He heard the sound of him scribbling something down. “Poor performance.” Usually Damian would be furious at such criticism, but only Jason’s blank gaze saw his satisfied smile. He had done exactly as he intended. He hoped someday his brother would recognize that he wasn’t the only capable of protecting the other. 

Any further comment was interrupted by the doors opening and the distinctive click of his mother’s heels. Damian leapt off Todd, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back. Then he saw her face and worry lanced through him. “What’s happening?” He demanded then cursed himself for speaking out of turn. 

Talia’s sharp eyes were on him in a second and narrowed. “Your lessons are over for the day. Return to your chambers at once.” Damian blinked, not what he’d expected. He offered his hand to Todd, he’d take him to the healers at once. “No. Leave him.” 

Damian looked between Todd, blood dripping from where the knife was still in his chest, and his mother, impatience clear in her tight lipped expression. “Of course Mother.” He inclined his head and slipped from the room and straight into the shadows. Whatever was going on he would observe, what happened to Todd was, after all, his business. 

From within the room he heard his mother talking again, could picture her stepping closer to Jason, could picture her cold fingers running along his face. “I had hoped you would come back to yourself sooner Jason. But we are out of time for such wishes.” Damian knew he was right to be afraid now. He heard his mother call for the men who had been training with them to escort Jason with her and then he was pressing himself back into the darkness as she strode by him, Jason trailing behind her. 

Damian followed them through the labyrinthine corridors, heart getting heavier with every step. His fears were confirmed when they came to the familiar room with its awful green hue. The pit glowed, illuminating Talia as she brought Jason up to the very edge, Damian hid himself behind a column in the dark corner. Talia’s hand was on Jason’s cheek, genuine emotion in her voice as she said, “you never deserved such a cruel fate.” And then her hands were on his chest, pulling the dagger free and pushing Jason backwards. 

He fell without a noise but Damian could swear his face was the very definition of fear. Damian turned his head away, unable to watch this. The crash of the water echoed in the silent room. He could hear his heart racing, felt it trying to beat out of his chest. 

What had his mother done?

And then there was a new noise, one that tore through Damian’s soul. There was a screaming that would haunt him, desperate yells, the sound of water splashing loudly and as he lifted his eyes back to the scene, he saw Jason, one hand clutching the edge of the pit, the other reaching out desperately. He nearly ran from his hiding place, nearly ran to his brother’s side but his long entrenched fear of the pit kept him in place. 

Talia pulled Jason from the pit as easily as she’d thrown him in. But this Jason wasn’t quiet, no the shivering mass on the ground was still shouting, pressing himself back against the wall, horrified eyes looking out from under a shock of pure white hair. There was no longer blood on his chest, there was no mark at all from where the dagger had been only seconds earlier. Jason was hyperventilating as Talia stepped closer to him and flinched when she reached for him. She called his name and his desperate eyes snapped up, and he blinked repeatedly as if trying to clear his vision, green water streaming down his face. “Br - Bruce!” Damian had never seen that much sympathy on his mother’s face. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Jason. Do you know who I am?”

“Where’s Bruce? I need - I need Bruce”

“Jason. Focus. Who am I?”

His brother breathed heavily, studying her face, confusion dawning, “Talia?!”

“Very good.”

“Where’s Bruce?” That was suspicion, Damian was pretty sure. 

“In Gotham of course”

“But I was - I was -” 

“You needed my help. Not Bruce’s. You’ve been in my care for a long time now.”

Even Damian thought care might be a generous word for it and judging by the horror on Jason’s face he was alone in that. “But Bruce - I was - There was - He said - I was trying to save -” Talia nodded at one of the guards who stepped forward and seized Jason’s arm- or rather he tried. Faster than anyone expected, Jason was twisting his arm out the man’s grip and diving for the dagger discarded on the floor and then he was driving it seamlessly between the man’s ribs. Unlike Damian, he didn’t miss his target. The second the blade was driven home, horror took the place of rage and he was scrambling away from the body. One look at the blood on his hands had him heaving his guts up on the floor next to him. “What the fuck - the fuck - I ki- I killed him”

Even Damian would say there was something sinister in the way his mother was smiling. “Oh Jason there’s so much you don’t know.” 

“What have I done?” they were the last words out of Jason’s mouth before he slumped into unconsciousness. 

That was not the first time Damian had seen someone die. He did not even know the name of the man. He would not mourn him. But a part of him would mourn what died in Jason Todd that day.


End file.
